


Fog

by Outofangband



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Implied Sexual Abuse, Implied Torture, Implied abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17716745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: (Summary/warnings: Some of my favorite brand of creepy Morgoth. The references to the poison and antidote are from a previous story of mine, link here) https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432165/chapters/41041382#workskin





	Fog

**Author's Note:**

> (also posted to @outofangband on Tumblr where I have my writings and art!)

“This will not do,” the Dark Vala snarled softly, tracing a long, pointed finger down Maedhros’s arm and frowning when he was met with no reaction, “Whoever left you like this?” He looks critically at the bound elf, his arms raised above his head in an awkward position. Maedhros’s left arm especially was in bad shape, an open cut had turned the skin around it greyish and nearly translucent. Vaguely, Maedhros wondered whether or not this had been a rhetorical question. It had been Morgoth, of course, who had left him like this, the poisoned wound on his arm untreated and exposed. It had been, well, Maedhros had no way of knowing for sure but as far as he could tell it had been a long time since he had been allowed any of the antidote. This was not as miserable as it sounded. Morgoth seemed to enjoy making the administration of the antidote as humiliation as possible and besides, under the influence of the poison, especially when he was not in the Vala’s presence, he was usually dazed enough that he could sleep without the interference of the dark whispers and shadows that flickered between any gaps of consciousness within the confines of Angband. 

But now, the chains were being undone and, unable to support himself on his shaky legs, Maedhros collapses to the floor. Morgoth looks at him for a moment before bending down to gather up the elf in his arms. Maedhros made a sound of indignance and anger in his throat. Morgoth ignored this, of course. He carried his prisoner down several corridors, ensuring his injured arm was held between them at an awkward angle so Maedhros could not struggle. The elf’s face was covered by Morgoth’s robes so he could not see, even if he managed the strength to lift his head. 

At the end of the fourth corridor, Morgoth pushed open a door and deposited Maedhros onto a bare bed, covered only by a thin sheet with badly washed bloodstains. For a moment, Maedhros lay still, his legs pulled to his chest in the closest to a protective position he could make. He gasped in pain and discomfort as his arms are restrained above his head again, bound with chains of Morgoth’s own invention. 

This was the second time Maedhros had been taken to this room to be tortured. Morgoth seemed to enjoy taking him from room to room; to see his fear and apprehension as he tried to guess what the contents of each new place was, what purpose they had, and what new torments awaited him each time he was moved. While there were certainly worse places he had been taken so far, it was always unsettling to be alone with the Dark Vala in a place like this. It was oddly worse in the spare bedrooms and empty halls than in his cell or the throne room. He felt more ashamed, nervous, like even Morgoth wanted to hide what he was doing with his captive from his servants. Not that the Vala seemed at all ashamed or embarrassed. Quite the opposite. 

Morgoth pulled something from his robes, a small bottle. Maedhros glared up at him, the only expression of defiance he could really offer. Without a word, the Vala tipped the bottle over so a few drops fell onto Maedhros’s injured arm. He gasped softly in pain again, his body jerking. Morgoth laughed quietly, bending down to press a finger to Maedhros’s shoulder. 

“Are you feeling this?” he whispered, as was routine. The poison took away much of the sensation in the affected areas and spread as time went on. Even worse than the humiliation of having to rely on the Vala for the antidote was the way his hands would then roam all over Maedhros’s body to  _ ensure _ that feeling had returned everywhere. 

Very gently,  _ too _ gently, Morgoth produced a cloth to press to the long cut, clearing away some of the dried blood. Maedhros shifted uncomfortably on the surface beneath him. He tried to calculate the balance between hiding his reactions enough to keep some vestiges of pride but still showing something to keep Morgoth occupied. Whenever he failed to get a reaction from the elf, he would merely escalate whatever game was on his mind that day, subjecting Maedhros to more painful, more humiliating, more shocking things. It was as though he fed solely on seeing and sensing his captive’s horror, shame, and self loathing. And his food supply grew stronger as exhaustion and despair made it harder to hide. Some parts of Maedhros were grateful that for now, he seemed to be entertaining enough that Morgoth did not feel the need to seek out any other prisoners. But this could only comfort him in mind. His body and spirit screamed out against the torment everytime a new day began. 

Morgoth had stood back to wait for the antidote to take effect, giving Maedhros precious few moments of something resembling peace, as awkward and uncomfortable as it was to know he was being so intensely observed. He could not risk humming to himself. This would either amuse or enrage the Vala further and both reactions were worth avoiding. But, he could bring up poetry in his mind, take advantage of how his admittedly frazzled senses allowed images to come up with more ease as though he was watching the poems unfold in real time. As long as he didn’t look like he was getting  _ too  _ peaceful or calm. To be safe, he chose a poem of the greys of Autumntime he had learned from an Avari soldier during one of their first encounters. The language barrier gave him the extra challenge of translating it to himself. Fog rose around his senses and he allowed himself to relax just a little bit, to feel something not quite rain more persistent than mist to cover his skin, providing more relief than the antidote could. The imagined sensation was an armor of sorts so that when Morgoth, deciding at last that he had waited long enough, moved closer again and bent down, his claw like hand on the elf’s chest, Maedhros could almost imagine it passing through his body completely. 


End file.
